


From Baker Street, With Love

by blazingstar29



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock Holmes, Brain Damage, Coming Out, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Gen, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Gun Violence, Hurt John Watson, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Party, M/M, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Non-Sexual, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Rehabilitation, Romance, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock's Violin, Speech Disorders, Veterans, Wetting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27486535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blazingstar29/pseuds/blazingstar29
Summary: John Watson’s post Afghanistan silence is broken when Sherlock stumbles into his home with a handgun covered in blood.John thinks Sherlock is the most brilliant man he has ever met.Sherlock thinks John is incredible with his soft eyes and nervous smile.Neither of them think they can be loved back.As danger brings John and Sherlock closer, love begins to blossom.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & Mrs. Hudson & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 17
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stripyjumpers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stripyjumpers/gifts).



> Welcome to my first romance based story!
> 
> Please keep in mind I'm only on episode 2 season 3 of Sherlock so please keep spoilers out of the comments :)
> 
> Edit: 7/2/21
> 
> I’ve been thinking for a long time about who I wanted to dedicate this work to. I’ve bought my heart and soul into it in the last few months. Who do I know in the fandom, who’s work touched me the most, who represents me as a ready/writer/fan?
> 
> And then I realised, stripyjumpers. The first author I binge read for Sherlock. Their work had made me laugh and cry and feel so many emotions as I take the journey they put they’re characters on. 
> 
> I know this story has some heavy themes later on, spelling mistakes and lets be honest it isn’t written that well in the beginning as I was so desperate to get this idea down. In short, this isn’t everyones cup of tea. But I wanted to express my gratitude for stripyjumper for publishing theirs works here.

In 221b Baker Street lived two men leading distinctly individual lives, so individual in fact, that they had never seen much more than a glance of each other. Well, neither of them had really had the chance, Doctor John Watson had only moved into the downstairs living quarters a week ago. Having finally received a decent relief cheque by the government, John had been able to move into a nice flat. His former one being considerably smaller. Anyways, the better address helped his insurance. 

His house mate, who he had yet to have a full conversation with was one Sherlock Holmes. A tall broody looking man with a ridiculous coat. Whenever John was around him, even if only briefly, he felt watched, exposed. Like the man saw through him every opportunity he got. 

Recently John had returned home from his first and last tour spanning three years,  _ honourably discharged  _ they called it. 

John hated those words. He wasn’t honourable. He was stupid. In the blistering heat in Afghanistan, he had seen something. A soldier bearing his own flag fall in the wide open and didn’t get up. There was no gun fire, no bomb. So John made the decision to go out alone, hopefully unnoticed by any snipers. He discardered his main weapon and took just a pistol. 

The soldier was unconscious and pale beneath his sunburn. The soldier was out there for a reason, he was cradling a small child. He had been returning to camp but in his neck was a blow dart that was already darkening his veins in a sickly black. John took the child and ran back to camp, shouting order and thrusting her into the arms of another doctor. A hand grabbed his shoulder before John could order a stretcher team out.

“It’s not worth it,” The voice is foggy and underwater in John’s memories. But he had ignored it and shouted for a stretcher team. The three marched out to collect the injured soldier but soon retreated as bullets drowned in the sand beneath their feet. 

John was adamant. The soldier had saved that small child, risking his life to do so. John wasn’t going to give up on him. And that’s where it all turned tits up. Two bullets sunk into his right shoulder. 

_ Honourably and medically discharged.  _

_ Bullshit _ , John thought,  _ bullshit. _

Now he spent his days working as an over qualified doctor at a small clinic. The most exciting thing to happen in the last six weeks was a possible case of chickenpox. 

John’s life was boring but that was okay. 

It wasn’t going to stay that way for long, because that all changed when Sherlock Holmes barged down John’s door holding a bloody hand gun at 7:30 in the morning.

-

“Sorry, can...can I help you?” John stuttered as was in the process of tying his tie. 

“I need your freezer. Mines not working,” Sherlock said tonelessly. John waved a had in the direction of what he thought was the kitchen but was in his bedroom in his shock. “Your freezer is in your bedroom?”

“Sorry, uh,” John shook his head and turned to his kitchen. Sherlock marched towards it and placed the handgun inside. “Why are you putting a bloody gun in my freezer?”

“Suspending evidence in time. Your apartment is going to be overrun by some of Scotland Yard’s questionable best in approximately twelve minutes. You might want to clean up.”

John was speechless, his elusive neighbour had just barged into his home with a gun. And freaking  _ Scotland Yard. _

“W-what are you doing. Why is  _ Scotland Yard _ storming my home, Sherlock is it?” John stepped into the kitchen and peered into the freezer before Sherlock slammed it shut.

“Yes. My freezer isn’t working. Mrs Hudson banned me from putting things in her freezer since I put a hand in it,” the strange man mused. John stepped back and tilted his head at Sherlock. The man had a heavy woolen coat and curly hair with a gaze fixated so intently on different places of the flat. 

  
  
  


Can you not do that?”

Sherlock turned around, affronted, “do what?”

John grimaced, “your looking at my living room like you're on an Easter egg hunt only instead of chocolates you're looking for...something. It’s odd.”

“Science of deduction, I have a blog,” Sherlock dismissed and pulled out his phone and started texting.

“Right, well I don’t know you and you don’t know me. You’ve just barged into my home whilst I’m trying to get ready for work and you’ve put a handgun in my freezer, covered in blood no less!” John scoffed returning to the mirror to finish his tie.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John's head snapped around violently, “I beg your pardon?”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock repeated whilst texting.

“Afghanistan, why?” John said uncertainty.

Sherlock snapped his phone away and looked out the window before turning to John with a grin, “the only thing I couldn’t work out.” 

  
  


John set his jaw and levelled his gaze, “right, you need to get out right now. Piss off with your Scotland Yard.”

Sherlock turner to him and his brow furrowed with something akin to glee, “oh yes definitely a millitaray man.”

“Alright just piss off now. You’re saying this to take the mick. Who set you up? Never mind just take your bloody gun and tell the Yard to go home!” John shouted.

“No one set me up. You walk and talk like you're still in charge of a regiment. There’s a dog tag on in your key basket. As for where you are posted, tanned face and hands but not above the wrists so you weren’t sunbathing. Narrows it down you see. You're a doctor but that’s obvious by a black bag by the door with a silver engraving of ‘Doctor Watson’. “

Sherlock’s tone of voice was punctuated by the sound of the door slamming open and three agents flooded in.

“Really Lestrade? Anderson?” Sherlock sighed pitifully. John smirked, the man who seemed to possess lethal intelligence was thrown off by a disliked colleague. 

“Where is it? Donovan go deal with the civilian,” Lestrade ordered stepping in.

“Not civilian,” Sherlock corrected quickly, he waved a hand at John. 

“Oh ah,” John fumbled to find his ID. “Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Army Doctor.”

Stating his rank was easy, the clipped tone surpassing his anxious or irritated one from before.

“Apologies, Donovan will fill you in on...” Lestrade waved at Sherlock.

“Psychopath neighbour?” She stepped in and drew John aside. “Sherlock Holmes, civilian consultant. Mind of a genius or psychopath take your pick.”

“I am a high functioning sociopath!” Sherlock shouted from the kitchen.

“Okay. Well then, I need to go to work. So when are you finished?” John asked, looking between the four strangers.

“You can go to work, we will lock the door when we’re finished,” Donovan assured with a smile. 

“Right,” John nodded and inches towards the door.

Then, as if the final piece in his puzzle fell together, Sherlock turned to John with a a cool gaze with a definite sheen of ‘I’m about to piss people off.’

“How’s the shoulder?” 

  
  


-

  
  


The lamp was never John’s favourite. It was one he had plucked from a charity store when he recently returned from service. The charity shops are far less overwhelming than the big department stores.

The detectives were kind enough to not arrest John in account of assault. 

Mainly because Sherlock really deserved to be clocked in the head with a bright blue lamp with Iggle Piggle on the lamp shade. 

“I don’t quite understand why that was necessary,” Sherlock moped holding a wad of tissues to a clotting cut above his eye.

“We’ve been over this Sherlock. You can’t go about exposing people’s life story, especially to war vets who I don’t know might still be recovering from trauma?” Lestrade snapped.

Anderson and Donovan took the excuse to walk John down to the street lest they start laughing. 

“I suggest you make some sort of apology when he returns this evening.”

Sherlock gaped, “why would I do that?”

“Because,” Lestrade gritted out as he finished filing the gun away. “You expose him in front of strangers, something he might find triggering. You revealed a physical weakness, something that might be triggering. You barged into his home with a gun covered in blood and demanded to use his fridge!”

“He threw a lamp at me.”

“Sherlock!”

-

When John returned home that evening his flat was empty. The gun was gone from his freezer and the shattered Iggle Piggle lamp was long gone. After fixing himself some tea he sat down onto the arm chair.

It had been a long, tedious day made worse by his morning distribution.

Sophie didn’t believe he had been stormed by three Scotland Yard officers before he used his army days to push it over the line

John was tired, all he wanted to do was eat something, watch a little telly and then go fix his bloody shoulder.

The injury which had been so courteously pointed out by his neighbour.

There was a knock at his door.

No one knocks at his door, everyone always goes through Mrs. Hudson.

As he slowly approached the door John reached his hand gun and irrational fear lingering. 

His therapist encouraged the idea when he mentioned he felt safer with the gun in the flat, even if there were no bullets on hand. So maybe one day he would be able to replace the safety net with something else. 

Anxiety coursed through his chest as he opened the door, no one sought after him, why now. With a heft pull John slung the door open to reveal Sherlock in his doorway. John slouched, sighing.

“What do you want?” John groaned, putting the gun on the side table. 

“I want to apologise for this morning,” Sherlock said pleasantly. John’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Oh, well, thanks,” he stammered. 

“I come bearing a gift,” Sherlock all but shoved a platter of scones at John. The doctor looked at the plate and back at Sherlock and grinned softly.

“Mrs Hudson made those, didn't she?”

Sherlock huffed a brief laugh, not offended in the slightest, “what gave it away?” 

“Well, they’re warm. Mrs Hudson is a woman of principle and would never serve cold scones so she must have just made them, I could smell it from their kitchen.. You certainly didn’t make them since there's no traces of baking on you,” John bantered and stepped back to allow Sherlock into the flat. 

“Good deduction,” Sherlock praised genuinely. He seemed to refrain from inspecting the flat and stood in the middle of the living room waiting for John.

“I uh, thanks. Take a seat, want some?” John gestured to the scones.

“Thank you.”

John started to plate up the scones in the kitchen, “so. You’re some sort of civilian consultant?”

“Yes. Without me the Yard would fall apart. God knows what could happen, the Chief could sack Lestrade and Anderson would replace him. Then we’d all be doomed,” Sherlock said dryly.

“Think highly of yourself then?” John teased coming back into the living room balancing scones and jam.

“Of course I do, I’m right,” John frowned at Sherlock trying to see the sarcasm but there was none.

“Right, of course.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has some very unsettling realisations at worK.

Sherlock left the flat later that evening feeling very strange. He had spent time with an ordinary person for more than five minutes and they had kept up with his conversation more than that. 

John wasn’t boring. In fact, he was interesting. The army didn’t weigh down his eyes for they were still bright and his smile was warm, very warm. Sherlock didn’t understand why he wasn’t nursing a headache and…

He wanted to talk to John again. 

John Watson was captivating. Sherlock had started to deduce everything he could but the more he talked to John the more he wanted the man to reveal it himself. On his own, Sherlock had put together John had been having a very unsuccessful dating life. 

He wanted to learn about Harriett and why John decided to join the army. He had however been incredibly elusive about his time as an army doctor. John was an open book but that chapter had been torn out. 

John Watson was so captivating. Sherlock wanted to know everything about the man, it was too easy to just figure it. He wanted the thrill of adding to his database piece by piece. 

The thrill of John Watson. How Mycroft would love to know this, know about how easily Sherlock could be captivated by an ordinary person- no.

John wasn’t ordinary, he was extraordinary. 

-

John trundled into work the next day, his mind had been whirring with the day's events the night before but the lack of sleep couldnt get rid of the pep in his step. Sherlock was so infuriating, enticing anyone to battle with him knowing they would fail. John fell for it every single time and Sherlock would grin devilishly as John would retort. They sparred over and over for hours until the sun disappeared and Sherlock made his polite excuses.

The man was infuriating but John hadn’t been this interested in...anything for a long time. 

A really long time.

Something inside him came alive the longer they argued because it was never in vice, it was a competition. Although at times John had hated the way Sherlock would lay him out like a handbook and expose who he was, the anger invigorated John. 

He lived alone, his friends had moved on, Harry was well, Harry. John’s dating life was non-existent. Each woman almost bored him no matter how much he liked them as soon as it became anything more he lost interest. He pined for that connection, that warmth to lay against another and dream the night away.

Then at five thirty PM, as he was packing away it hit John in the face. Harder than the Iggle Piggle lamp had hit Sherlock. There was a reason no woman ever lasted around John, they sensed it. There was a reason Sherlock intrigued him so much no matter how annoying he was.

John power walked to Sarah’s office.

“Sarah, I’m gay.” 

His boss tilted her head, slightly bemused, “you just realised?”

John gaped, “you mean you knew? Oh that is just great. Why didn’t I know, why did no one tell me? ‘Oh look at John, he’s so gay anyone could see’.”

The doctor was seething. After all these years, of fumbling his way through dates with girls looking pitifully at him. It wasn’t because he was awkward, it’s because he’s gay. His breathing sped up before he could stop it. The truth rained down on him like a ton of bricks.

“John I think you need to sit down. What’s triggered this-John!” 

-

John woke up on the floor. Sarah peered down at him with a look of concern.

“How are you feeling?” She asked, pressing a hand against his shoulder to stop him from sitting up.

“Like my life is a lie,” John grouched as the memories flooded back. “Oh god.”

“No John, it’s okay. I’ll drive you home, I don’t trust you behind the wheel right now,” she said seriously. 

Sarah took John home, the drive was quiet as John let thoughts roll around his mind. Sarah walked him to his door and disappeared to the next flat. 

Sherlock’s flat.

  
  


Sarah came back a few moments later and stuck her head around the door, and whispered.

“That explains it.”

John tried to protest but she was gone before he could get off the armchair and Sherlock was walking into his home. 

“What?” John snapped at his presence.

“Your boss came to tell me you passed out at work, asked me to check on you in case you decide to do any more of those.” 

“Well, you can go, I have stuff to do,” John rose and snatched some strapping tape off the kitchen table and disappeared. 

“Shoulder injury playing up is it?” Sherlock called, moving closer into the flat. 

John slammed the bathroom door shut, “I fell on it. It’ll give me trouble if I don’t tape it up tonight now please bugger off.” 

To his surprise Sherlock was still there fifteen minutes later making tea. 

“Why,” John sighed. “Are you still here?”

Sherlock looked confused, “I’m making sure you’re alright.”

“Okay,” John conceded. “Okay.”

-

Sherlock’s bedside manner was appalling. He was abrasive and in your face but genuine concern shifted beneath those waters. John wasn’t his friend, he was just being… 

Neighbourly.

At 8:40 John told him to go home, there was a sternness to his voice. He said ten minutes after, what Sherlock presumed, he had taken painkillers for his shoulder. It was anxious and upset like he wanted Sherlock gone before something happened. Sherlock abided by John's wishes and vacated the flat leaving John.

The doctor was relieved, the painkillers were a last resort. They made him dead to the world and he wasn’t ready to be vulnerable like that around anyone. Let alone Sherlock. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy! I wanted to draw these chapters out longer but it felt good to end here. I hope to do this story justice :)
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos if you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for gun shot and hospitals

As time passed John and Sherlock grew closer to be almost friends, except Sherlock didn’t have friends as he so often pointed out. John pushed down every fibre in his body. Sarah was right, Sherlock  _ had _ triggered something within John. The cause behind his fainting spell. 

Sherlock was down right attractive. 

Of course John kept any implications of his attractions secret. The voice of ghosts whispering in his ear that he was going to hell. And well, Sherlock was never in a million years going to be into  _ him _ . The man flirted his way up and down even if it was to only get what he wanted he knew how to do it and never once did it with men. Sherlock was his flatmate, absolutely nothing more. 

There have been way too many close calls for John’s liking. Passing Sherlock a cup of tea and their fingertips brush, knocking shoulders as they walk down the street, _ playing footsie underneath the table at dinner. _ (In John’s defence he had nudged Sherlock’s foot because he wasn’t listening to Mrs Hudson. Sherlock took it as a personal offence and continued to poke and prod at John.)

But that’s all they were, close calls. Easy little things for John to run away from. 

Until Sherlock got hurt. 

It wasn't much, not in Sherlock’s eyes. However Sherlock is a sociopath and doesn't have a MD. 

A gunshot wound, in the upper thigh. John watched as his best friend, because that’s what he was, wasn't he? His best friend crumpled, right leg buckling beneath the weight and pain. John dropped low trying to free himself from the man holding him in a bear hug. With his attackers centre of gravity of kilt John slammed the heel of his hand into the man's groin, with his arms now free John reached for his attacker's arm and twisted it. The wrist bone snapped in moments. 

Running to Sherlock’s side was like running through a treacle. His hand instinctively put pressure on the bullet hole, whilst the other felt for an exit. When John didn’t find one he pulled out his phone.

“Sherlock, he, he’s been shot,” John was surprised with the emotion in his own voice. “We’re at Hyde Park with the killer a, please get an ambulance quickly.”

John was pleading, he dropped the phone that was wedged between his shoulder and ear when Sherlock called out his name.

“Don’t you bloody shut your eyes Sherlock or, Sherlock!” John was shouting and crying all the whilst watching Sherlock’s face. Begging for the brightness to stay in his eyes, beginning for a heart beat to stay. 

He didn’t want to call time of death again, not on his best friend. 

\- 

When the ambulance finally arrived with Greg hot on their heels John was a mess. He was sobbing and yelling medical terms to the paramedics as they took over. 

John all but collapsed against Greg as the ambulance doors slammed shut. Greg broke multiple speed limits getting John to the hospital. John was beside himself waiting for news, waiting for his friend to be okay.

“What if he doesn’t wake up?” John whispered after half an hour. “There’s a big artery, he lost a lot of blood, it could shatter the bone. He could lose a leg.”

“Or,” Lestrade said softly. “He could be absolutely fine.”

John sunk his head into his hands, “I didn’t want to call time of death of my best friend.”

Greg placed a heavy hand on John’s shoulder and leant down, “he’s going to be okay John. You did everything you could and Sherlock’s going to be annoying the shit out of you within the next few hours.”

The surgery took seven hours.

Sherlock was sedated for three days.

John had four anxiety attacks and twelve phone calls to his therapist. 

-

Sherlock was properly conscious four and a half days after being shot. John had been sitting by his bedside for almost every moment of it, willing for the man to wake up. Willing, willing.

When those eyes did open John cried softly, he was gripping onto Sherlock’s hand when it began to twitch. Those icy blue eyes snapping open in Sherlock fashion, he was off the ventilator but still had an oxygen cannula and an IV in his arm.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice cracked.

“Mhm, yes I suppose I am,” Sherlock murmured as he gripped his surroundings. “What happened?”

This was the part John was dreading, telling Sherlock he was in the hospital because of him.

“We we’re out for that killer, and he came up behind and grabbed me. I told you to run, to which he said no one would run away tonight and he shot you,” John said stiffly. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault, I.”

“John no, no this, this wasn’t your fault. Please believe that.”

John nodded.

He didn’t believe it. 

They sat in silence, still hand in hand waiting for a nurse. Sherlock silent in disbelief that someone cared for him so deeply.

That Sherlock cared for John Watson. 

And John Watson cared for Sherlock Holmes. 

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for drug use and gun violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out a bit angstier and shorter than I planned. I'm trying to do this story justice in the sense of a slow burn but I'm not sure I'm doing that well haha

After his break down in front of Sherlock, John resolved to never become that weak in front of the man again. He had let his emotions run far too far and it was time he put a stop to his infatuation. 

For a few days it worked, he avoided Sherlock and didn’t go to check the incapacitated man. Mrs Hudson no doubt would be stuffing him with tea and biscuits every chance he got. 

Until a phone call from Mrs Hudson at work.

“It’s Sherlock, I think he’s taken too many of his pain killers,” the woman's shaky deceleration froze Sherlocked. 

“Mrs Hudson, I need you to listen very carefully. Put Sherlock in a recovery position, on his side with the shoulder facing the floor supporting his head with his opposite hand resting upon that shoulder underneath his head. Call an ambulance right now,” John’s voice was stern as he walked out of his office and waved an apologetic hand at the receptionist. “Try to keep him conscious and talking.”

“No no,” the woman said. “He hasn’t passed out or anything. He's still awake and shooting holes in my wall but he’s a bit loopy and the pill bottle is empty”

“ _ Get the gun off Sherlock _ ,” John bite out as he puts his car into gear. 

The drive wasn’t far but John was directing Mrs Hudson every step of the way to handle Sherlock but the man continued to parade around his flat with the gun. Well, parade was a strong word, he couldn’t get far without the crutches and he shouted ‘bored!’ Every few seconds. 

John bursts into the apartment to see a pale Mrs Hudson and Sherlock leaning on only one of his crutches whilst he wields his Webley RIC. 

“Sherlock,” John greeted with the same tone he used with an uncooperative patient. “What’s going on right now?”

“I’m bored John! I’ve no cases, Lestrade won’t give me a scrap and I can hardly move. I needed a little something to tie me over,” Sherlock explained as he waved the gun to punctuate his words. 

With Sherlock decidedly high but under John’s observation, the doctor rang Lestrade.

“Anyone up your way fancy a drug bust?”

-

John only rang because he wanted to make sure there was nothing in the flat that Sherlock had squirrelled away.

He didn’t realise Sherlock was a user. 

In a beaker under the sink traces of cocaine were found and nestled away in a faux eye drop bottle was morphine. 

Of course John realised this before the lab results came back. 

He and Sherlock sat on two arm chairs facing each other while forensics worked around them.

“So you use?” John asked placidly

Sherlock glared, “only when I’m bored and have no cases.”

“Come on I know she’s an old dear but Mrs Hudson’s bingo stories must bright up your day?” John teased. One might think that it was insensitive, but Sherlock wouldn’t have appreciated any sentiment. John knew that.

This brought a small smile to Sherlock’s face. 

“Sorry I um, well that I haven’t been up for a few days. And for the drugs bust but well, I’m sure you can see why it was warranted.”

The smile fell and Sherlock’s face darkened, “yes well you saved my life you don’t owe me anything.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” John responded softly. “Work got busy, I just. I’ve known you a few months and even worked with you on a few cases. You're so independent I thought you’d best be left alone.”

Sherlock seemed to sense and accept the apology for the smile lifted to his face again, “it was quite rude of you not to join Mrs Hudson’s bingo retelling. You might have livened the place up a bit.”

“What’s that meant to mean?” John asked mildly offended but a smile on his own face.

“Your very ordinary John, Mrs Hudson was the office lady and wife of a drug cartel leader. It’s a clear winner,” Sherlock teased. 

“You know what,” John laughed. “I think your right.”  _ I am nothing. _

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter makes up for all the bs I've been writing recently :)

“Hey Sherlock, what’s with the obnoxious…” John announced his presence with take out in hand. Most nights a week the two would eat dinner together when John returned from work. “Sorry, am I interrupting something?”

A man with hard beady eyes stood in the windows whilst Sherlock fiddled with a lighter in his dressing gown.

“Yes, please go away and don’t return for quite some time,” he said passively as he spun his umbrella into the floor. 

Sherlock snapped his head around, “piss off Mycroft it’s just John.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s ‘just John’. These are important matters,” the man, Mycroft responded. Sherlock flapped his fingers against his thumb, mocking the man for talking. 

Sherlock stood up, his agility returning as the days went on, “John, this is Mycroft. He runs the british government in his spare time.”

“Sherlock, that’s no way to introduce someone. Mummy taught you better,”Mycroft gripped with the air of someone who enjoyed holding the high ground.

“Well Mummy isn’t here, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. “I’m having dinner with John.”

Mycroft stalked closer to John and circled him, “should we be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

“Don’t flatter yourself Mycroft, your funeral wouldn’t be that exciting.” John looked between the two men, Mummy? 

“Come now Sherlock, you never bring anyone home. Mummy misses you,” Mycroft placates and then he says with an annoyed tone. “She keeps ringing me instead.”

John decided to intervene at this point, “if anyone cares, we’re not actually dating. Secondly, who the hell is Mummy?”

“Our mother,” the two say in unison. Our Mother!

John’s eyes widened and he turns to Sherlock, “you have a brother? You’re his brother? Where the hell have you been whilst he’s been getting shot and doping himself up. But you decide to show up now?”

The anger was thickening in John’s veins, “and now what, you need him to do something? You need him but when he needs you, oh well? Jesus Christ.’

Mycroft frowned in offence but shifted gears to make an attack upon John, “and you? Doctor John Watson.”

John wrinkled his nose, “oh for god sake.” He pointed at Mycroft and looked at Sherlock. “Is he like you?”

“No,” Mycroft denied. “I’m the smarter one. Any way, soldier. How as my brother managed to draw you into his little radius, do you enjoy feeling special? Being one of the few close to Sherlock Holmes?”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock growled.

“Or do you feel safe, your own weakness so obvious. A gunshot to the shoulder whilst deployed in Afghanistan. And now you're plagued with nightmares, because it was your fault isn’t? You made many mistakes that day, just like dear Sholto.” 

With a roar John jumped at Mycroft and threw him against the floor. 

“You bastard, you bloody bastard! You know nothing, you sit in your ivory tower like the fucking wanker you are, doing nothing for your country but fucking around with office ladies!” John shouted as Mycroft threw him off and rolled on top of John. Mycroft kneeled on John’s upper back immobilising him. 

“Don’t take offence Mycroft, he threw a lamp at me when we first met.”

“If I let you up, are you going to restrain yourself from attack me,” Mycroft panted. 

“Fuck off,” John hissed. 

“Get up Mycroft,” Sherlock ordered darkly.

Mycroft got up but roughly shoved John’s head towards the floor, “I’ll be in contact about eastern Europe.” 

Sherlock kneeled by John and watched Mycroft leave. John was panting and a not quite here look was in his eyes. He had put himself in that position, John had instantly turned on Mycroft in defence of Sherlock.

In defence of me.

“John, whatever your seeing, it’s not real. You’re at 221b Baker Street, you’re in London. My imbecile of a brother was in here,” Sherlock begged John back from the brink of reality. 

John was bracing against the floor with his forearms, his face void of all colour. The pair stayed like that, John braced against the floor and Sherlock hovering anxiously until John rose to his knees. 

“Sorry, I, sorry,” John huffed tiredly. Sherlock laughed not unkindly.

“Mycroft is a prick, he had to come. He is void of all human literacy. I have managed to learn it, he has not and considers it a weakness. “

John frowned before shaking his head, “bloody hell, okay. Well, I brought some thai food.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up, “oh good. Was Jeremy there? I got him off assault charges because I found out his poodle was being put down and he was crying in the veterinarian’s office.”

“Of course you did.”

“Of course I did.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Non graphic description of injury, mild graphic description of bomb, PTSD, warfare, soldier death, sexuality confusion

Somehow, the residents of 221b Baker Street fall into a comfortable routine. John works his nine to five at the clinic, occasionally visited by a still recovering Sherlock who sits in his office when no patients are to be seen. The consulting detective trawls through cold cases for the Yard, still prohibited from being on active cases. 

Regardless of if they met during the day, at some point in the evening John and Sherlock would have tea or dinner. Mrs Hudson was definitely believing that something else was going on, not helping feelings that John was in the midst of squashing.

Sherlock was his friend, he was good company on the days John felt his darkest. For that, the veteren was grateful. 

  
  


x

  
  


John thought that despite his sudden entrance into his life that he got on quite well with Greg Lestrade. In fact there weren't too many instances where they did little more than butt heads. Yet as they ate their meals, John grew increasingly frustrated.

Because for some reason, Greg thought John and Sherlock were a thing.

“Are you two going away in the summer to get some time alone? Best time for easy open and shut cases, the heat cusses tensions causing domestics-“

“We- Sherlock and I are not shagging!” John slammed down his pint with a murderous look in his face. Lestrade pursed his lips and looked uncomfortable.

“You mean?”

“Not even close.”

Greg opened his mouth with a look of surprise in his face, “but your so, and he’s so...” Across from him John curled his hands into tight fists underneath the table. “When he got shot you were so upset and then you spent so much time around him you even took time off work.”

The anger left John’s face, in its place was the cruel shadow of PTSD. A disease clinging to the host, but not letting it die. “I was a soldier Greg. I watched people die, I watched my friends die as they were blown to pieces. I was a front line doctor. I was sent into villages to aid injured civilians. There were children who were so ill, who had shrapnel in their body. 

“I saw the light leave they’re eyes. When Sherlock was shot he crumpled and all I saw was a dry war torn village, a town square. And in the middle was my best friend almost disappearing into the landscape with his uniform. There was a sniper, blood staining his uniform. And we left him for dead, I left him because I obeyed orders. So when I saw Sherlock, I reacted severely, because it was the town square all over again.”

There. He said it. Something he hadn’t even dared tell his therapist. And Greg said nothing.

“You like him don’t you?” He finally spoke.

John smiles, “I only share a building with him. I could easily avoid him if I didn’t like him.”

“No,” Greg says, causing John to look up sharply. “I mean more than that.”

“Oh.”

The warm atmosphere of the pub suddenly felt dense and claustrophobic around John. His face blanched and Greg saw his change in demeanour.

“It’s fine if you’re, y’know...” he trailed off not knowing where to look.

“I know it’s fine!” John snapped and then whispered, “I’m not gay.”

The defeat tone of John’s voice pained Greg, “it’s not just gay and straight y’know. There’s bisexual, pansexual.”

With his face now strikingly white John stood opened his wallet and dropped forty pounds on the table and left. In retrospect he felt guilty about leaving.But his sexuality wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have, even with himself. 

x 

When Sherlock and John arrived on scene two days later Greg showed no inclination to their last meeting. John liked that about him.

As Sherlock began to bark orders at Anderson to  _ “stop mutilating the body the poor bastard’s been through enough!” _ John stood near Sally Donovan waiting for his chance to inspect the body. 

“I’m getting four weeks off over July,” she began. Behind Sherlock Greg overheard the Sergeant's words and quickly began to shake his head very directly. “What about you two, got any plans?”

The damage was done and the knife twisted in John’s chest. He felt like a mockery, like they were holding his sexuality confusion and attraction to Sherlock above his head. He had had enough.

John turned to Sally and took a steadying breath.

“John…” Greg called skirting around Sherlock to get to the Doctor.

When John had been diagnosed with PTSD he was told he might have a few ‘blow ups’. Times where he couldn’t cope with what was going on around him, whether it was a trigger or not. He would reach the end of his tether and because of his incapaicated ability to cope, he would snap. John didn’t like to think he could have that ability to snap so violently. 

“I’m going to say this once,” his voice rose louder than he planned and caught the swinging heads of many officers. “I am  _ not _ dating Sherlock Holmes  _ and I am not gay!”  _

He smartly turned away and began to make his way out of the house down to mainstreet when John heard the quiet whisper from Anderson.

“ _ Touchy, _ ” he had whispered to a colleague. 

John didn’t stop when he reached the foot of the stairs but very calmly he said, “fuck off Anderson.”

That finally brought a reaction from Sherlock who had stayed quiet the whole time, not even standing when Lestrade rushed away. 

The house was quiet for a few moments before Lestrade shouted for everyone to start doing their jobs. 

  
  


The warm air brought John to his senses and he groaned into his hands. He had lost his cool in front of the Yard. Greg was able to move past their confrontation at the pub, but what did he want John back on crime scenes if he would blow up about something like that?

He stood despondently a few hundred yards from the crime scene. 

The ringing was the first thing he realised.The high pitch ringing in his ears. Then the grit in his eyes. The full body ache that settled deep in his bones and how the asphalt felt so hot against his cheek. England didn’t get hot enough for hot asphalt to burn you like these.

Finally, as he gathered his senses through the smog of his brain. The final sensation to smack him in the face before his mind went white with pain, was the unholy feeling of being burnt alive. 

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out to be a very lengthy chapter. I'm currently on holiday with no reception so I will be writing a lot but updates won't happen regularly until next Tuesday. 
> 
> CW: Hospitals, medical discussion, drugs, rehab for physical injuries.

When the explosion went off the old house buffered much of the noise but the silence that followed wasn’t normal. There wasn’t yelling for some rowdy kids to piss off, or cars crunching. 

Lestrade and Donovan rushed down stairs quickly followed by Sherlock. Outside the air was covered with thick smoke. People began to scream and shout for an ambulance. Sherlock ran into the smoke before Lestrade could grab him.

“John!” He shouted as he spun around in the debris. “John!”

“There’s someone over here!” A woman shouted. Sherlock followed her voice, stomach curdling fear pressing on his chest. Donovan and Lestrade began to do crowd control as the rest of the forensics team came out of the house. 

On the ground John lay on his side muttering. 

“IED...casualties...civi-ans,” he whispered over and over.

Sherlock kneeled down and tenderly reached out, “John can you hear me?”

No response. John was stuck between two worlds. One where he was an army doctor working collateral damage. The other, where he had been a casualty. 

Sherlock reached out, long pale fingers cupping John’s face, “oh God, oh John. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?” 

At the sound of his voice once more, John tried to lift his head upwards, “’lock?” He croaked painfully. “IED, casualties…”

“Hey, hey,” Sherlock whispered probing gently at the bleeding gash on John’s forehead. He unravelled his scarf and pressed it into the wound. “Everything’s alright, you don’t have to think about that now. The paramedics are on their way.” He turned around to onlookers and the forensic team. “ _ PLEASE _ tell me someone’s called an ambulance.” 

Blood was beginning to stain John’s teeth, shock settling into his bones. “Sher…don’t…” He waved haplessly for Sherlock’s shoulder. The detective turned back to the injured man. “Don’ leave me, please.” 

“I’m not going anywhere, John. I’m never leaving you.”

-

The ambulance arrived four minutes and twenty-nine seconds later. 

The ambulance was almost three minutes and sixteen seconds to late. 

From the explosion there were three casualties, John was the closest to the bomb. As he was being treated in the trauma bay Mycroft Holmes rang.

“There’s going to be an attempt on John’s life, where is he?” He said as soon as Sherlock answered the phone. “Sherlock? What’s going on, Sherlock?”

But Sherlock couldn’t respond, he was still frozen staring at the swinging doors John had disappeared behind. “You’re too late.”

“Shit. Where are you?”

“Humphrey’s.”

In the background were rapid footsteps, “Sherlock stay right there.  _ Do not move _ .”

-

Mycroft found Sherlock standing outside the A&E building smoking peacefully. The younger Holmes eyed his brother with weary, red eyes. They flashed darkly a single warning,  _ don’t _ .

“Put it out Sherlock,” Mycroft ordered. With a defiant drag he huffed a bloom of smoke at Mycroft and dropped the butt at their feet, squashing it out with his heel. Mycroft leaned closer, staring intently at Sherlock. “You know what. I’d say you were high but no, even you couldn’t get to a dealer and back. You’ve been  _ crying _ .”

Once more the dark warning of  _ don’t  _ flashed across Sherlock ’s eyes. “Don’t tell me you actually care for him?”

“So, what if I do? John is my, he’s my friend and he was just attacked by a roadside bomb which  _ you _ knew about,” he shouted, voice breaking. 

Mycroft curled his upper lip in disgust, “do you feel it brother mine? Do you feel that pain in your chest? It’s called worry, it’s what people feel for ordinary people.” Sherlock threw a fisted hand against the brick wall.

“John Watson isn’t ordinary!” He seethed. “You  _ knew  _ about this and you did  _ nothing _ .”

The brothers stood a short distance of each other, the sun beginning to descend. Puffs of air clear. “Am I meant to keep track of every person who follows you around?” 

“Only the ones I care about!” Mycroft laughed harshly.

“You don’t care about people Sherlock,  _ that’s the thing. _ ”

The younger Holmes glared something awful and began to speak calmly but angrily, “you have bugged my home, you payed off every dealer in a hundred-mile radius and my homeless network. Don’t pretend you know nothing about me since my private life clearly extends to you!” 

Mycroft’s beady eyes narrowed as he released a long-suffering sigh.

“Don’t make the mistake of caring Sherlock. It doesn’t bode well for our sort.”

“You are the true sociopath here. You always have been,” spat Sherlock vehemently. “You care for nothing but what concerns you. Intent on living you perfect life. John was right, you sit in your ivory tower and let people like him be cannon fodder. Don’t lecture me on caring, Mycroft, when you don’t!”

His face twisted, “I care for you, god damn it!” Sherlock threw fisted hands into the air.

“No, you  _ don’t _ ,  _ Brother mine _ You care for the idea of me, the little brother who does  _ your _ leg work. You like it when I comply for you, when I don’t question you. You keep track of me for the sole reason businesses have to give holidays – so they still have employees!.”

At this strong accusation Mycroft went puce with rage that remained unspoken because a nurse stepped out of the sliding doors, “Mr Holmes?”

Both Holmes brothers turned at the call, but it was Sherlock that responded. 

“Doctor Watson has been moved to an ICU room; you can see him briefly whilst the doctors discuss his treatment.”

“What’s happened,” Sherlock asked desperately as he walked closer. The nurse smiled kindly, placidly. A smile honed over the years as a trauma nurse. The smile given to expectant families waiting for hear news. The smile that says,  _ ‘It’s too serious for me to tell you now _ .’

Sherlock’s heart clenched.

-

John Watson was not a tall man, but he never looked small.

He looked too small lying there. 

A breathing cannula was tucked under his nose, left arm in a sling, heart rate monitors on his chest. Bandages on his hands, neck, concealing burns. 

“Oh John,” Sherlock sank into the bedside seats.

“Mr Holmes,” a woman said. Sherlock jumped out to see a doctor holding a file, her name tag read Dr. Vetta.

“Yes,” was all he could manage. The doctor didn’t take it to heart and immediately began to slide the scans onto the light box on the wall.

“Typically, we would rather discuss these matters with family, but you are listed as an emergency contact on his most recent official forms…”

Doctor Vetta’s voice drowned out briefly. __

_ He was John’s emergency contact. _

“Mr Holmes?” Doctor Vetta noticed the faraway look on Sherlock’s face. “It’s alright, I’ll go back to the beginning. Of course, our immediate concern was the burns. Thankfully his limbs were mostly covered, and he was facing away from the blast. It’s hard to tell at this stage but our scans are indicating a moderate concussion, but they aren’t conclusive as of yet. Since Doctor Watson was so close to the blast there is also a concern about his hearing. Unfortunately this also is not yet conclusive.” 

“So, everything is inconclusive?” Sherlock asked despondently.

Doctor Vetta gave him a sad smile, “no. The way the blast knocked him resulted in multiple fractures in his forearm as well as two hairline fractures on his right cheek bone. We will continue to take MRI’s of his brain every four hours until he regains consciousness. That’s what we are most concerned about monitoring right now.” Sherlock nodded slowly and swallowed. 

“What, do you, is he going to be alright?”

Doctor Vetta smiled again, it was the same smile the nurse gave him earlier, “we are optimistic of a recovery.” He couldn’t help it, Sherlock knew she wasn’t saying something.

“You said  _ a _ recovery but not a  _ full _ recovery. What aren’t you saying?”

Caught out, the Doctor’s mask dropped but she quickly replaced it, “Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson was incredibly close to a bomb. It is remarkable he is still alive. The paramedics report said his heart was very nearly close to stopping. The next twenty-four hours are going to tell us a lot as we observe his brain’s response. Right now, we are aiming for the minimum, a recovery. Where Doctor Watson can get back to functioning life, doing things like walking to the store for milk, making lunch. 

“Enabling him to live indecently or at least semi-dependent. Not in a home. A full recovery would mean driving, working, functioning completely free from aid. If I’m being brutally honest Mr Holmes, I’m not. No one in the trauma bay believed his heart hadn’t stopped. We will keep you updated.”

-

An hour later, when John had gone off for his first of many MRI’s, Lestrade found him sitting blankly in the hospital café. 

“How is he?” Lestrade asked, dropping coffee and a sandwich in front of Sherlock. As Sherlock recounted a brief version of what Doctor Vetta had told him he saw Lestrade nod thoughtfully. “So, he’s going to be alright?”

Sherlock stiffened and saw Lestrade’s face blanch, “Sherlock, he’s going to be okay, isn’t he?”

“The Doctors are optimistic of a recovery, possibly even semi-independent. They’re aiming for the minimum so”-Sherlock put quotation marks in the air-“‘Doctor Watson can get back to functioning life, doing things like walking to the store for milk, making lunch.’ Doing all the things he hates most. That’s, that’s…Lestrade-Greg, that’s not living for John. That’s  _ hell _ .”

Lestrade rested his elbows on the table and dropped his face into his hands, sighing heavily.

“We won’t let him live like that Sherlock. We won’t give up on him.” 

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s going to be alright-”
> 
> “you don’t know that. Brain injuries, they, they don’t just heal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Further medical talk of Mild Traumatic Brain Injuries and mental health.

Mrs Hudson as always, knew what to do. At twenty to nine in the evening she entered Lord Humphry Hospital armed with a wicker basket and her going out coat. She found Greg and Sherlock by John’s bedside looking incredibly sorry for themselves. John was wheeled back into the ICU room after his second MRI, the nurses didn’t said anything but as they reattached the wires shared a look between them. 

She didn’t acknowledge Greg or Sherlock at first, she put her basket down and sat on the other side of John and spoke quietly in his ear for a few moments before standing. At first she spoke to Greg.

“Are you going in to work tomorrow?” She asked bluntly. The Detective Inspector froze suddenly realising they were still in the middle of an active murder case. 

“I’m meant to, that’s where we were today. There’s going to be a lot of attention on it,” he said quietly. 

“Both of you, go home,” Mrs Hudson ordered. Both detectives looked up with incredulous looks. “As you said Detective Inspector, there will be a lot of attention on this. You need sleep and you need Sherlock. He can solve the murder and get that cleaned up whilst you handle everything else. To do that you both need sleep. You told me on the phone the only thing happening for the next few hours are scans; I’ll stay in whilst you two go to work in the morning. In the afternoon you can come in.”

The land lady told them the plan with such fierceness even Sherlock couldn’t see her changing her mind. “Will you be alright here?”

Mrs Hudson smiled, “yes dear. I’ve got my flask and the crossword, there a microwave in it if you win.” Sherlock smiled and kissed her on the cheek as he and Lestrade rose to leave.

“I’ll buy you three microwaves and never put my experiments in them after this,” he said tiredly.

“Careful,” she warned. “I’ll hold you to the experiment part.”

-

Lestrade drove Sherlock back to Baker Street.

“The explosion, my brother told me, it was an attempt on John’s life.”

Lestrade gripped the steering wheel intently, “sorry what? How long have you known this?”

Sherlock rummaged through the glove box for gum, the need to smoke itching in his throat. Lestrade noticed and centre console open and chucked a packet on nicotine patches at him.

“My brother rang me when John was in the trauma bay and then he came to the hospital. I didn’t find out much, we got into a…argument,” he revealed as he stuck two patches onto his forearm.

Huffing, Lestrade plucked the packet from Sherlock and stuck one on to his own arm at a red light, “I need to speak to him.”

Sherlock scoffed, “he won’t be coming into the yard. He’s a wanker like that, he’ll come to Baker street. He works for the government.”

“Jesus Christ Sherlock don’t let him shit around. We need to know what he knows,” Lestrade stressed. 

“You think I don’t know that! My brother and I have a long and arduous history,” Sherlock seethed. “For ease of life I generally let him believe he has come out as the top dog. But this is one thing I intend on extracting every little detail from.” 

Sherlock was out the door before Lestrade had fully taken his foot off the accelerator. 

-

The nurses were surprised to find an older woman sitting by Doctor Watson’s bedside but they didn’t say anything, assuming it was an aunt or mother. Maybe a grandmother. Despite receiving contact information for Harriet Watson, there was no word from the blood relative listed on the forms. 

When Doctor Watson was taken away for yet another round of scans, when they returned the doctor to his room one of the nurses sat bayside Mrs Hudson.

“These scans will show us what the future is going to look like. Doctor Vetta will review them in about forty minutes if you would like to call anyone to come in?” He asked quietly as his colleagues began reattaching the wire to the doctor. 

Mrs Hudson smiled, “thank you dear,” was all she could say. Once the nurses had left she rang Sherlock and then Greg Lestrade’s office. With the calls made she finally removed the bible from the basket at her feet. 

“I hope you don’t mind John, but I borrowed this from your flat. I know you’re not a very religious man, but well. It’s a nice thing to do, a generational thing people would say. Now this doesn’t mean you’re allowed to die young man, far from it. This is to make sure we’re giving you every chance to be back on your feet as soon as possible. 

“ Think, O God, of our friend who is ill, whom we now commend to Your compassionate regard.Comfort him upon his sickbed, and ease his suffering. We beg for deliverance, and submit that no healing is too hard for the Lord, if it be His will. We therefore pray that You bless our friend with Your loving care, renew his strength, and heal what ails him in Your loving name. Thank You, Lord.” 

The prayer filled the silent room and drowned out the noises of the machines. Then, as if finding some peace in it herself, Mrs Hudson began to read from John’s Douay-Rheims bible. 

“ _ And there shall be life to thy soul, grave to thy mouth. Then shalt thou walk confidently in thy way, and thy food shall not stumble. _ That was nice wasn’t it?”

She kept reading to the unconscious Doctor all the way until Sherlock arrived. He entered the room, eyes falling onto the bible in Mrs Hudson’s hands.

“I didn’t know you were religious, let alone Roman-Catholic,” he mused. Mrs Hudson smiled and set it back down in her basket.

“No,” she said. “I was raised a Christian. This is John’s bible, I picked it up from his flat before I left. Thought it might be nice to have, raise the morale.”

Sherlock smiled before muttering, “generational.”

Even though he couldn’t see her, Mrs Hudson looked at John as if to say  _ ‘I told you so.’ _

-

Doctor Vetta came in smiling. 

“Doctor Vetta,” she introduced herself to Mrs Hudson. “Are you family?” 

Mrs Hudson laughed, “goodness no. I’m his landlady.”

Unfettered by the unknown connection, Doctor Vetta carried on. 

“Doctor Watson has had six scans and so far we aren’t seeing any changes to the brain damage. Of course there is still damage, but there is no bleeding or further The suspected diagnosis is currently a moderate traumatic brain injury. We will confirm this when we take him off the sedative.”

Both Mrs Hudson and Sherlock look at each other holding their breaths before Sherlock asks, “what can we expect? Symptom wise?”

“The usual symptoms are trouble with speech, ringing in the ears, headaches, loss of mobility, even seizures. This will all be much clearer over the next few hours. Once he is coherent we will conduct an assessment, from there we will discuss treatment.” She looked at them with a sincere look of reassurance. “A nurse will be through shortly to tap off the sedative.” 

-

It took over an hour for John to wake properly, and straight away it went to shit.

The doctor jolted awake immediately trying to sit up, “-e bom-” he stuttered.

“John,” Sherlock leaned forward. “You, you. Just relax, I promise everything is okay. You’re in the hospital but everything is alright, I promise.”

Everything was not alright.

-

Sherlock and Mrs Hudson left the room whilst Doctor Vetta explained everything to John. Unlike them, he was able to keep up with what she was saying. They moved away from the glass window as he was being assessed. He wouldn’t want them to see as he struggled to form words or swing his leg. 

After lunch they moved him down to a ward which is when they finally returned to his bedside. John was quiet and withdrawn.

“It’s going to be alright,” Mrs Hudson tried to reassure the soldier-on, tone of voice she had stored away. But John shook his head.

“I’ve been, b-been through this before, the rehab, the asses-asess, the  _ tests _ . It wasn’t easy, easy the first time and now it-it-it’s even worse. This time I’m going to bloody need that blood-bloody cane,” he growled, staring daggers into the bedsheets. “I need to ca-call work, tell them what’s going on.”

“Lestrade’s already done it,” Sherlock said quietly. The sudden weight of John’s injury finally hitting him as John stuttered over each word. “It’s going to be alright-”

John hissed out air through his teeth, “you don’t  _ know that _ . Brain injuries, they, they don’t just heal. This coul-coul-could take yeh-years to go away. I’ve only just finally been getting less pain in my s-s-shoulder and now I’m back to where I started.” He pawed a tear off his cheek. Frustrating growing at his inability to speak coherently. “I was getting my life back. I was in rehabil-rehabi- _ rehab _ for months for my shoulder, my  _ shoulder _ . This is a brain injury, they…”

He deflated back into the pillows behind him. 

“Oh John,” Mrs Hudson sighed tearfully.

Sherlock gritted his teeth with set determination and braced his forearm against the bed and looked straight at John. “You will not lose your life John Watson. You bloody won’t, not if I have anything to do to it.” 

Through the pain, through the rolling clouds of depression settling in on John’s horizon, he managed to smile.

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Doctor’s said anxiety may be a symptom. If that’s what you’re feeling, don’t trust it. Trust me.”
> 
> John’s heart pounded against his rib cage so hard it made him feel sick. He pressed his tongue between pursed lips and matched Sherlock’s intense gaze.
> 
> “I trust you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said updates wouldn't happen very often but hey, here we are.
> 
> Please note the only experience I have with brain injuries is when my grandmother had a stroke one I was 10. I have tried to research and best depict a mild to moderate traumatic Brian injury, it's symptoms and recovery as best as I can. I do not intend offence to those who have and if you have any pointers please let me know.

He didn’t look up at the presence of another, Sherlock knew who it was.

“Why did you tell me?” He asked, his voice barley above a whisper. Mycroft sat down on the plastic chair at the sticky cafeteria table.

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock lifted his gaze, “if you don’t care for John, why warn me? Why try to save his life when you don’t care for it?”

Mycroft signed wearily, bored bored of the conversation. “I don’t care for John, I care for you Sherlock no matter how much you deny it...and by extension, I in a way, care for John. Purely based on your affections for him, even if I can’t comprehend them.”

They remained in silence for a little while, Sherlock stirring sugar packet after sugar packet into his coffee.

“How is he?”

Sherlock let the teaspoon slide from his fingers.

“The official diagnosis is now a mild to moderate traumatic brain injury. In other words, we are on the wrong side of months of physical rehabilitation.”

“We?” Said Mycroft. Sherlock sighed painfully.

“He’s not doing this alone. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, dare I say even Donovan are with John every step of the way. His last rehab almost killed him. He needs us.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed as he rose from his seat. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s skinny shoulder. “But you are...the most important to him. Of that I am certain.”

A weight remained in the air, Mycroft’s unspoken words rolled around his mind.

_ ‘If only you believed that yourself could be loved.’ _

-

Five days after the explosion the doctors seemed to be happy with John’s burns. Especially with his hands. Enough so that they decided it was time to start his physical therapy.

Sherlock was there when they brought the wheel chair to transport John. He was sitting up on the bed in sweatpants and his white knitted jumper. As soon as he the chair his face blanched.

“No,” he shook his head. “I ca-an walk.”

The nurse glanced neutrally between Sherlock and John before giving a small smile to John. “I’m sorry Doctor Watson. Hospital regulations.”

John sighed and gestured for the chair to be brought closer. Sherlock stood at the foot of the bed, uncertain if he should move closer if trouble should arise. Although his hands trembled and he didn’t look all that steady on his feet John maneuvered himself from the bed into the chair. 

He glanced at Sherlock with nervous eyes, “you-you-you don’t have t-to come I-if you ne-need-ed-”

“John,” Sherlock cut him off. “I’m coming, that is, if you want me there.”

“Ple-ase.”

-

Anthony, the physical therapist, seemed to prioritise assessing John’s ability to move around. So the session started off a single repeated movement.

Sitting down and standing up.

Accompanied with “good, and one more.”

Over and over.

The silence crawled up John’s neck and into his brain. His laboured breathing as he worked at controlling his legs to stay underneath him.

“Good, and-”

“Sherlock,” John snapped suddenly as he sat down ungracefully on the chair. “That k-k-case, the one with the ha-at with the dangly P-P-Pom Pom’s. How did you figure out it was mul-multiple people who killed the vic-vict, the vic?”

“John you were there, you helped me solve it?” Sherlock was confused by the sudden request from the Doctor.

“Tell me ag-again,” John huffed and wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. “Please.”

And that’s how most of his early rehab sessions went. To distract him from his inability to move, Sherlock ran through every detail he noticed in each of his cases. 

Two weeks after the first session Doctor Vetta deemed John safe enough to go home. 

Except they were issuing him a walker. John argued, he argued right up until he was signing the discharge papers. Despite his shunted steps he only conceded to the use of the cane. But the walker...he would fight to the bitter end. 

Lestrade came in the morning John was being discharged. He was sitting on the chair silently tying his laces.

“Back in a minute,” said Sherlock before using his eyes to gesture to the hall outside to Lestrade. The Detective Inspector followed him with a frown on his brow.

“What’s going on?”

Sherlock checked they were far enough from the door to the ward. 

“The hospital is making him take a walker.”

“Shit,” Lestrade groaned, rubbing his jaw. “How’s he taking it?”

Sherlock bit his lip, “not well.”

-

John stood bitterly watching the walker getting pulled out of the boot of Lestrade’s car. He had driven Sherlock back to Baker Street to save the pair from battling it out with the walker and a taxi.

John followed the other two up the steps but stopped to turn into his own flat whilst Greg and Sherlock stopped short midway up the steps. A three-way Mexican standoff. 

Greg cleared his throat and came back down the steps and extended his arm, “I’ve got to get back to the Yard, but I’ll see you soon. Best of luck let me know if you need anything. Oh, and don’t be surprised if Sally starts showing up. She’s, she’s still feeling bad.”

John shook his hand and smiled warmly, “thanks Greg-eg. You t-tell her wh-what S-sh-s-s.” The name died on his lips unable to breach the roadblock in his mind. His heart went cold, his stomach dropped. There wasn’t a way to describe the feeling of knowing the word, saying it every day and yet struggling to get past the first syllable. Greg seemed to understand. He smiled with lips pursed together, carefully avoiding the unspoken. 

“I will.” 

He left the building quietly. Leaving John and Sherlock to hash out what the  _ fuck _ was going on.

“I’d like it,” Sherlock began. “If you would consider taking the upstairs room in my flat. I don’t want to crush you or take away your independence. But if you need help, well, you know how I am. I don’t answer phones, I get stuck in my own head. Just having you that little bit closer would give me peace of mind that I could hear you should you need help.” John pursed his lips and thought heavily.

“If-f I’m hon-es-est I thought about-it-t myself. And ah-s much as I wah-ant to pretend I’m fine. It’s a lie.” From the stairs Sherlock smiled almost gratefully. As if he wanted John to be safe as much as John needed someone to be there for him. 

-

Waking up was the hardest part. Lying half-awake he could pretend everything was still normal. No one tells what it’s like losing something you were born with. Losing your ability to communicate fluidly…His tongue felt fat in his mouth as he tripped and stumbled over his words. Giving up when it just wasn’t going to work. The day before standing in the entrance way and he couldn’t get Sherlock’s name, it was a blow to the heart. 

As soon as he had dumped his duffle bag in Sherlock’s spare room he shoved the folded walker underneath the bed. 

_ Out of sight, out of mind _ . 

Waking up was the worst part but getting up was the hardest. Stiff from sleep his body needed to wake up. Gone were the days of rushing out of bed when he was running late. It felt like he would be adding an extra half hour in his mornings with the amount of time he spent willing his body to cooperate.

The cane rested against the bedside table, John reached out and grasped it. 

Time to start the day. 

-

Breakfast with Sherlock was surprisingly the same as Sherlock normally was. He was seated cross-legged at the round table in the kitchen. A stack of toast on the table and a microscope. 

“Morning,” he said absently whilst changing the slide on the microscope. 

“Morning,” said John heading to the kettle. He secretly relished the way the word fell from his lips without tremor. He stood waiting for the kettle to boil. Physical warmth spreading to his bones standing next to the oven whilst also the ease of motion returning. 

As the kettle began to boil and the tea bag dropped into a mug John stood contentedly. The occasional  _ click-click _ of the microscope. It was almost normal. 

Almost. 

A slow warmth started to spread down the inside of John’s leg. It didn’t occur to him at first, but when the wet warmth spread over his foot it clicked. John stiffened and held his breath. He dropped a tea towel at his feet and as fast as his  _ damned _ body could go, he left the kitchen for the bathroom. 

“John?” Sherlock asked at his retreating back. Despite his slowed pace John managed to lock the bathroom door before Sherlock could get to him. “John talk to me please, what’s going on?” 

“G-g-go a-h-ah-away S-s-herloc-kh,” 

  
  


“John you...you’re scaring me. Please talk to me,” Sherlock begged with genuine fear.

“I...” John faltered looking down. “Don’t stress-s, I f-think the doc-tors need t-to ra-run some m-more t-ests.”

A cold lock of fear coiled around Sherlock’s neck, “why John, why?”

John breathed in deeply and exhaled, tears pooling in his eyes. “I fu-fucking pe-pe-pissed my-my pants.” Heat flushed up his neck with embarrassment at his body’s betrayal. Sherlock was silent on the other side of the door before the sound of retreating footsteps. Cringe curled in his stomach, disgust at himself.

The footsteps came back and the flop of something soft on the floor.

“John, I’ve got you some things. Do what you need to do and we’ll talk when you're ready.” 

Sherlock’s voice was so calming, so steady. There was no trace of resentment (although he was known to be a good liar). 

“I’m sorry.”

The door clicked as a weight fell against it from the other side before Sherlock’s voice filtered through, “don’t be. Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault John.”

  
  


He wasted no time showering and changing. Bypassing the living room John went down stairs to the laundry room. Mrs Hudson would harp on about wasting water, but he threw the wet clothes into the washer by themselves and turned it on. 

In the cool damp room John felt as small as he had ever been. His body was betraying him, he was living with Sherlock because he couldn’t be trusted. And if he wasn’t living with Sherlock he wouldn’t have to go face him. Nothing was as it was.

With a sigh, he left the room to face Sherlock.

Upstairs Sherlock was pulling on his coat and scarf. 

“Ready?” He asked as John reached the top of the stairs. “I phoned a head at the hospital...I thought well. Not sure what I was thinking, not the best with emotions and other people’s thoughts but I. I thought you might like to get this sorted as soon as possible. It’s still early, we can brush it off as routine once we get round to the yard...”

Sherlock rambled.

Sherlock ramble ramble.

The corner of John’s mouth pulled up into a small smile. “Thank you. Could-could you grab-ab my coat?”

It was slung over the chair next to Sherlock, a small surrender to help.

“H-hang abow-out. Weh-why are we going to-to the yard? Though I-I was beb-banned?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to smile slyly, “oh no only the crime scenes. I’m not letting you lose your life.”

-

Sherlock waited for John in the waiting room. It was a surprisingly short meeting with Doctor Vetta. Thankfully when John left, leaning harder on his cane then he did with the psychosomatic limp, his face wasn’t completely crestfallen.

“What did they say?” Sherlock stood to meet him. John gave him a look, despite a lack of control and speech, it was comforting to see John would still give him dirty looks when Sherlock had done something a bit-not-good. But he faltered just as he went to chastise Sherlock. 

“Fuck,” he whispered. “I f-forgot.” They stood staring at each other for a few moments. “Wa-it. G-got-it. Anyway, outside.”

Once John considered them away from the general public he explained what Doctor Vetta had said. “It’s muh-most likely a one-one off. But t-took an MR-R-I and the-y will c-call me.”

Sherlock nodded and listened quietly unsure what to say next.

“Ready to solve murder?” 

-

He didn’t tell Sherlock of course. But he was freaking the  _ fuck _ out. What was he doing examining a body in his state? 

As Molly wheeled out the body and Lestrade chatted away about the case the world shifted around him. Voices warped and the body was all crooked. The floor dipped below him and spun relentlessly.

“I don’, Sherloc’ mhmph I,” John murmured, eyes glued to the floor. “Everything…” 

Like a curtain lifting, words and shapes began to return to order around John. Unfortunately this clarity enables him to see the concerned faces watching him.

He cleared his throat, “s-sorry about-about that. Are-are y-you sure about th-is-s?”

John expected Sherlock to bustle on like he normally did. Instead he looked at him with kind eyes, “are you?” John pursed his lips and looked away.

“I, my b-brain is-is n-not what-” John tried to explain but Sherlock stepped forward and close to him. Comfortably cool enveloped John’s head.

“Your brain is exactly what it used to be. You are still Captain Doctor John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. The ability to identify the cause of death as accurately and as quickly as you do, it’s still there,” Sherlock enthused before leaning to speak more quietly. “The Doctor’s said anxiety may be a symptom. If that’s what you’re feeling, don’t trust it. Trust me.”

John’s heart pounded against his rib cage so hard it made him feel sick. He pressed his tongue between pursed lips and matched Sherlock’s intense gaze.   
  


“I trust you.”

_ I always have. _

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sherlock once again goes off on his own, tensions rise and secrets are spilled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited   
> cw: r slur, ableism, derogatory language

As weeks slid by, John still refused to use the walker even when he struggled to walk in a straight line and had to cling to Sherlock’s arm with his other hand.

The tremor in his hands had begun to subside but his legs still seemed to be a few seconds behind his brain. Sherlock took to popping into John’s PT sessions but there was an unspoken line in the dirt.

No one did more than a courteous enquires about John’s speech therapy.

No one went with John to his sessions.

No one met him immediately after.

The speech therapy was off limits, an unspoken rule. That was okay. Unfortunately that wasn’t the memo the rest of London got.

-

Molly and John were walking in the gardens outside Bart’s discussing the actual cause of death of one of the bodies in the morgue.

A couple of young men were smoking but both doctors ignored them as they passed by. 

“The-the-uh ha-heart at-t-ata-ack-ac,” the sentence was one of his worst sorts. Where there wasn’t a word without a stutter. The young men heard this and looked up. Eyes slithered over John’s shunted walk, cruelty twisting in their hearts.

Laughter rose up behind John and Molly. The nervous woman’s eyes flitting between John’s stricken face and the men.

“...What a...I know!..Invalid…”

“Na man...haha!..such a fucking retard.”

John stiffened, his step faltered but a moment later he carried on as normal. He didn’t dare to speak until they were walking back to Bart's staff entrance.

“I was an army doctor. I could break every bone in your body  _ whilst _ naming it. Yet you would see me on the street and think nothing of me.” He laughed darkly. “I don’t even know why I’m allowed to look at bodies after my performance the other day. And Sherlock, I’m waiting for the day he can’t stand the sight of me.”

“John Hamish Watson! You remove it from your mind that you are anything but significant to Sherlock,” Molly scorned, vehemently showing the side of her rarely seen. It was easy to forget the nervous mortician didn’t have a fierce side. “You mean so much to him. Don’t let your situation blind you of the love people have for you. We both know what Sherlock is like but he likes you. Your friendship means so much for him.”

She smacked the buttons on the elevator once the doors opened. It began to descend back to the lobby. 

“Wait here,” she snapped and marched back outside.

“Molly!” John hissed. He hesitated to raise his voice these days, even at Sherlock. But the mortician kept marching outside. He loitered near the windows and watched Molly walk right up to the men who had made the derogatory comments. It started with Molly yelling and waving her hands around. Then one of the youth must have said something, for with a harsh open hand she smacked one in the side of his face. 

“Oh!” John spluttered as Molly spun on her heel and began walking away before turning around once more and with both hands gave the ‘v’ sign to them. 

She seemed much more settled when she came back to the Lobby. Her flustered demeanour returned as she fluttered to explain her actions. John just shook his head and smiled. 

Back at Molly’s office they returned to pilfering through old lab reports trying to find the information they needed.

“I’m guh-guessing you k-know about wh-ah-ah-t m-ade me run o-off that d-ay-ay?” He said after a while. Molly glanced up, bags collecting underneath her blood shot eyes. 

Two tired doctors. 

She nodded slowly, “Sally told me. She was really upset.”

“I kn-know it doesn’t mat-mat-matter. It j-just, people k-keep thinking that... They-ey k-keep-ep thinking S-s-sherlock and I-I a-are to-to-together.” Molly frowned and John raised his hands in a surrendering motion. 

“And-d I know-ow it so-unds buh-bad but I’m n-not finished. I-t doesn’t b-bother me because I’m st-straight, it’s-s the opo-op-opposite. I d-don’t kn-know who I am, and, and, and it’s so ridic’lous but my br-ay-in twists those words into muh-mocking. And, and, because it’s suh-something I w-want bu-but c-could never have. F-for som-ome in-ex-ex-explicable reason I am thoroughly infat-tuated with Sher-lock Hol-mes.... A-nd I h’ave no idea wh-hy I jus-t told you that.”

“Why don’t you tell him that?” 

John let out a sharp mirthless laugh, “no... God no, that, that…S-sherlock Ho’mes sav-aved my life. I’m not-not going to le-let that go for my own persona-personal feelings. He kept-ept me alive and from a doctor's pe’spective, that is more than enough. He’s my f-f-friend.” In her big black swivel chair that dwarfed her frame, Molly sat and chewed her lip anxiously glancing between her paper and John.

“You,-“ she swallowed “-you said he saved your life. What do you mean?”

He puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled, “ I mean jus’ that…If I hadn’t met Sherlock se-seven months ago I would-would not be talking to you right now. I was bur-burning the midnight oi-ill at the-the clin-ic to pay bills, my life was em’ty and meaning-less. A-nd what wei-ghed on my mi-nd e’ery day w-as that I was resp-onsible for the dea-ths of t-wo men. I was a dy-ing man and Sher-lock restart-ed my heart. He c-came into my flat as I was leav-ing for work with a guh-gun cov-ered in blood, di’ you know that? And then I smas-hed a lamp over his head so it’s fair g-ame. I did not w-ant him in my life but he stu-ck and got me wo-rking cases.”

“I heard the explosion was because you were a friend of Sherlock’s,” Molly whispered, not daring to meet John’s eye.

“Yeah, I was fai-rly out of it when th-ey were clean-ing it up. I don’ care re-ally, no well. I do. I c-are that I have los-t the cont-rol of my body. I don’t care that it w-as to do with She-rlock. I was getti-ng shot at in Af-Afg-hani-stan. At least I was only fifteen min-utes from Hump-hrey’s.” Molly laughed at that, the tension breaking in the room. Suddenly John’s face went serious. “I’ve got it.”

“What?” Molly jumped up to lean over the desk at the paper in John’s hands.

“This,” he muttered. “This is the paper Sher-lock wanted.”

The report in John’s hands detailed the case similar to their current one. The killer was never caught but a woman was murdered yet it took ten days for tor forensics to figure out the cause of death. The lead suspect left London once he was released from custody as there was not enough sufficient evidence to hold him. He was clinically diagnosed with Anti-Social Personality Disorder and had a violent history of anyone trying to become involved in his life.

As Molly and John finished scanning the pages their eyes met.

“Molly, where’s Sherlock?” 

-

No one could track down Sherlock. Whilst the Doctor’s flew into a controlled panic Lestrade tried to reason that Sherlock might never have known who it was.

John growled back, “It’s Sherl-ock. He’s been on almos’ every murd-er case in the last feh-five years. He know-s the lead sus-pect he just needed p-proof.”

Two hours later Sherlock finally came back to the Yard looking slightly disheveled. He found John nursing a long cooled tea in the Yard’s kitchen. 

“What?” He snapped when he saw John’s serious expression.

John bristled, “wha-t do you mean ‘what?’? We’ve be-en worr-ied that you’ve g-gone o-off loo-king for some, s-ome soci-soci-opath w-ith a mean streak. We we-re worried She-rlock, I wa-s worri-ed. Where were you?”

There was a pause, “I was looking for Damien Jones.

“For g-od's sake Sherl-ock!” John spat. “Do-n’t run of-f li-ke t-that with-out tel-ling me!” Sherlock slammed down the kettle and wheeled around.

“You’re not my boyfriend, don't pretend to care about what I’m doing.”

John felt the words hit him like a smack in the face, he physically took a step back. Extremely conscious of his voice he began to speak, “I c-care Sherl-ock. I real-ly do. D-on’t….don’t pu-sh me aw-ay.”

The brooding man’s eyes flashed, “I’m not pushing you away John. I’m doing as they say, “self care”. I’m protecting myself.”

Leaning heavily on his cane John shuffled forward again, “f-f-fro-m w-ha-t?” He asked earnestly, his voice trembling more than it usually did. Sherlock rubbed his face like he did when he was trying to solve a particularly hard case.

“I’m in love with you John. Probably since I met you. But as you pointed out before you almost died, which was my fault by the way! That you’re not gay. I'm stopping myself from falling further in love.”

John’s mouth fell open, shock glittered across his face. Blood rushed through his ears, heart pounding. There have been few things in life that had made him feel this way. The impossible dream. All John saw before him was the man he loved admitting he had mutual feelings.

And he was still standing there with his mouth agape whilst Sherlock anxiously tugged at his hair.

“N-o,” John whispered. “I’m not gay. But I n-ne-ver s-said I was-s st-stra-ight ei-ther.”

Sherlock threw his hands forwards into the air, “you see! You see! You’re not gay. I have no idea why I even told you. For fuck sake,“ he paused. “What did you say?”

“I’m n-ot straight She-rlock. I am also thoro-thoro...ver-y in lo-ve wi-th yo-u myself. You didn’t ded-dedu-deduce that d-id you?” John sniggered kindly. A smile quirked at Sherlock’s mouth and they both found themselves giggling. 

“Shh!” John tried to say. “We’re at a police station.” Sherlock closed the gap and took John’s hands in his own. Neither cared that their confessional box was a kitchenette in the Yard. 

“Did you,” he whispered, afraid to break the energy that enveloped them. “Did you mean what you said?” John moved a shaky hand and tenderly raised it to Sherlock’s cheek. He felt the slight vibrations through his face and leaned in to them.

“I ha-have fe-lt this wa-y for a l-ong, lon-g time Sherl-ock. Jus-t af-af-ter we met e-ev-ven. B-but you n-ne-ever show-ed a sign of be-ing int-ere-sted in da-ting, let al-one being ga-y or othe-rwise. I wa-s quite cont-ent bei-ng yo-ur frie-nd so I never sa-id anything, our frie-ndship... It’s too s-acr-ed for m-e to ri-sk sa-ying som-ething like th-at.”

Emotions swelled inside Sherlock’s chest as he comprehended John’s words. He brought his hands to cup John’s face and lean down so their foreheads touched. Hesitantly John tilted his head back so his lips met Sherlock’s for a moment before he flinched away, an apology at his lips.

“I so-” But Sherlock cut him off leaning in for a deeper kiss which he returned. It wasn’t a passionate, lustrous kiss like in the movies. This was slow and warm and careful. Both of them are content to learn from each other in this new way. His hand slid from Sherlock’s face to the gap of exposed skin on Sherlock's neck. 

John smiled into the kiss, “pe-people will t-talk.” Sherlock laughed softly breaking away.

“Let them.” 

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is ridiculously short and I'm worried I've deviated to far from the original plot. The response to this chapter will dictate where the next few chapters in this story go.

The weeks further progressed closer and closer to summer and John and Sherlock kept their relationship tightly under wraps from everyone. It was a mutual agreement between the pair to wait and see what happened to them. 

Sometimes John didn’t know if Sherlock remembered if he was in a relationship.

Sometimes Sherlock couldn’t believe John could look so lost in his own home. 

-

Much to the relief of John and those around him, the intensive therapy he was having not only reduced how heavily he relied on his cane to stay standing. It also greatly reduced the severity of his speech impediment. 

Doctor Vetta didn’t need to tell John that the effects of his trauma would be life long, and possibly worsen when he grew older. But for now, he was too blindly happy to be back where he was after returning from Afghanistan. 

Unfortunately this happiness was undercut by something unexpected. His relationship with Sherlock.

It wasn’t that Sherlock never expressed affection. He diligently stayed by John’s side through doctors appointments and bodies in the morgue when the Doctor doubted who he was. 

But other times...other times it was like they were strangers. Sherlock would float around caught up in his own haze of insanity for days or weeks on end. In his haze, he forgot about John. Forgot to say good morning, forgot to smile. 

He would forget John Watson. 

In his mind, John figured that this was how it was. Sherlock would do what he needed to do and that was that. So he stayed silent, stayed vacant and let Sherlock speed run through his work. 

Together their faults grew unnoticed, forgotten in the moments of light and glaringly obvious in the dark. Yet still, they ignored them.

As all things do, the forgotten problems came to a head in a frightening way. 

Well, for Sherlock anway. 

-

Mrs Hudson rang Sherlock one morning in a very relaxed manner yet with a strain of urgency to her voice. She was ringing from the car and there were sounds of groaning in the background.

“Hello love, just letting you know that John and I are popping down to the hospital. He fell down the stairs and thinks he’s done his collar bone,” she said gently.

“Where are you?” Sherlock barked after a millisecond of faltering. 

John leaned to the phone plugged into Mrs Hudson’s little sedan. “I’m alright Sherlock. Just getting it checked out. I fell down the sodding stairs that’s all.” For a few seconds all that could be heard was Sherlock’s panting and the background noise of a street. “Sherlock,  _ calm down. _ ”

“Which hospital?” Sherlock finally said.

“Humphry’s, they know me.”

-

In the cab on the far side of London, Sherlock’s phone began to ring. And it wasn’t Mrs Hudson’s contact.

“What?” he snapped viciously at the elder.

“You’ve got a tail, as does Doctor Watson.”

Sherlock tilted his head backwards to get a look behind the cab, “it’s usually you. Who is it?”

There was a beat of silence, “we’re not sure. Don’t get out of the cab until you see Anthea. We’re currently putting security at the flat, yard and hospital.” Sherlock pulled a face.

“Who would be tailing us to the hospital?” 

Two beats of silence this time. 

“When there is a Consulting Detective brother mine, there is a Consulting Criminal. I’ll be in touch.”

As soon as the line clicked off the screens on the back of the front seats began to flash at Sherlock. For a few moments it was all static before the image of a man piecerced the grey and white. 

_ “It’s time to tell the story of Sir Care-a-Lot. Sir Care-o-Lot King Arthur’s strongest knights. Before he became a knight, he was a very sad and lonely farmer.” _

The man’s voice was tilted with an Irish accent. There was very little to tell from the washed out image. The Irishman was in a plain t-shirt and had greasy hair.

His eyes. Sherlock was sure they were staring right into him.

_ “But when Sir Care-a-Lot became a knight, he was filled with so much love. Sir Care-a-Lot would do anything for his friends. And King Arthur’s enemies realised this. The druid Mordred said to his friends, ‘if we hurt Sir Care-a-Lot's friends, maybe he will be too sad to fight us.’ And that’s exactly what they did. I could tell you the rest of the story, but it hasn’t happened yet. But it will soon _ .”

The screen went black.

Sherlock was fumbling for his phone but his hands froze when a series of images flashed across the screen.

Lestrade walking into the NSY.

John and Mrs Hudson in the car.

Molly Hooper eating lunch. 

The man returned to the screen,  _ “Sir Care-a-Lot’s heart might just get burned.” _

  
  



End file.
